Paradise Is Blind
by crystals-for-food
Summary: Jesse and Hanzo have lived a charmed adult life with their co-owned coffee shop, but their relationship is strained when they find their friends and family plagued by war in their dreams. The worst part is, those dreams may be more of a reality than they believe.


The sunshine streaming in through the window seemed different, grayer somehow. Jesse McCree shot up in bed, his heart hammering against his chest and his whole body shrinking away from the buttery yellow beams. He felt like a hunted animal, betrayal crawling all over his skin like millions of fleas. But he knew where he was. He was home. Home, home, home.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed his hands over his ruddy, tear-streaked face. He grabbed a tissue from his nightdesk. The material felt scratchy against his cheeks like the gun in his hand from the nightmare. He had been running through the streets of what looked like Spain, reloading an old revolver. The sounds of a firefight raged just a building over. He'd charged forward and into the fray - firing at a woman who looked suspiciously like the realtor who had sold them the shop space. She was lithe and efficient, holding a pulse rifle and taking aim at his head as surely as if she'd done it from birth. "Crazier 'n a cat in a glove box," Jesse muttered to himself. A soft, hoarse chuckle tore from his mouth and landed flat on the floor.

He wadded up the tissue and tossed it, missing the wastebasket but not bothering to pick it up. Instead, he turned over and smiled when he saw the most beautiful sight in all the world: Hanzo Shimada with his hair sprawled out behind his head, some of it stuck to the side of his face. His mouth was open to catch flies, and Jesse leaned forward to press a chaste, loving kiss to the corner of it. "I'll go make us some coffee, darlin'," he whispered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. He stretched for a moment. Pulled his arms above his head and waited for his back to crack. He rolled his shoulders back and forth. They were tense, probably from his most recent nightmare. The nightmares had been going on for a good two weeks off and on. He'd told Hanzo about them yesterday, and his husband had nodded solemnly, suggesting a meditation session.

"We will close the shop up early tomorrow," he had proposed, gently wrapping his arms around Jesse's soft middle. "Meditation clears your mind. You will find it infinitely helpful, and I will teach you how to do it correctly. I am quite good at it."

"No doubt ya are, darlin'," Jesse had said. He had kissed the top of Hanzo's forehead, holding him close. He hadn't had the heart to tell him that he'd seen Hanzo in the fight too, his hands gripping a bow and arrow. He had shot with deadly accuracy and spoken only once to Jesse.

 _He called me gunslinger,_ Jesse thought now as he padded down the hallway to the kitchen. _And I called him archer._

The nicknames had been said with a fair amount of affection, but it had just felt so… wrong. But it was just a dream. He had to remember that.

Just a bad dream.

The kitchen lifted his spirits. It was spacious and airy, the windows filtering in bright sunshine. The sunlight no longer held an eerie tint of gray, and Jesse breathed in deeply. The light washed the shadows from his mind, the cobwebs from his chest. He felt less like the lonesome cowboy in his nightmares and more like the co-owner of a coffee shop. He found his phone plugged into the wall near the toaster and decided to put on some music. He chose gentle acoustic, smooth and soothing. Soon, he was humming along. The fog in his mind had evaporated, and it left him light on his feet.

He decided to use already ground coffee so as not to wake Hanzo with the hellishly loud sound of the grinder. He put water on the stove to boil, going to make a fresh cup of Peruvian with the French press.

Hanzo came out in his housecoat as Jesse was compressing the water through the coffee grounds. He smiled drowsily when he saw Jesse standing naked in the kitchen over a French press. "It is just like you," he murmured and gave his husband a slow, morning-breath kiss.

"Hmm, ya know how to make a guy blush, don'tcha?" Jesse said. He finished muscling the coffee and poured it into a mug. "Milk, creamer, half n half? Whatcha feelin' like today, Hannie?"

Hanzo shrugged, seating himself on top of the island bar. His bare feet dangled, and his hair - black and silky and unbrushed - lay wildly atop his shoulders and tumbled listlessly down his back. "Milk," he said after a moment's thought. "Whole, please."

Blinking incredulously, Jesse glanced up at him, grabbing the whole milk from the refrigerator. "I thought ya didn't like it. Too fattenin'," Jesse said. He chuckled. "Not that there's anythin' wrong with a li'l chub if I don't say so myself."

He patted his belly, and it jiggled in response. Grinning brightly, he looked back up at Hanzo whose eyes were downcast. Though he was still sleepily relaxed, Jesse could tell he was anxious. Hair had slipped from behind his ears, and he hadn't bothered to push it back. "Hanzo?" Jesse asked. He set the milk down and stood beside his husband.

"It is nothing," Hanzo said. He still wouldn't spare Jesse a glance. "I simply want whole milk."

"An' darlin', there's nothin' wrong with that, but… Well, I've known ya long enough to know that ya turn to fattier things fer comfort, an' that's all well an' dandy, but why don't ya just tell me what's botherin' ya? I can help. I'm good at that kinda shit," Jesse said, his lips quirking into a thin, worried smile.

Hanzo grunted. He reached over and took Jesse's hand, gazing down at it with an intensity Jesse had seen only a handful of times. It was something of another reality, another Hanzo. Utterly different from the one he'd fallen in love with. More characteristic of the one from his dreams, the archer with the sharp wrinkles, the one who had called him gunslinger. The one he had called archer. And suddenly, Jesse realized that Hanzo was looking at the hand he had held the gun with in his nightmares. "Ya've been havin' the dreams too," Jesse said, his voice low and cautious.

"They started last night," Hanzo murmured. "The day you told me you had been having them."

"Maybe they're not the same," Jesse suggested. "That shit don't happen - dream sharin' an' crap. Tell me it."

"The coffee is growing cold."

Hanzo's answer was stiff and icy like a shock of stream water thrown on Jesse's head. He watched Hanzo hop down from the bar and pour in his milk, plucking a spoon from its drawer and mixing the drink. "Thank you for brewing it," he added, voice gentler now.

"Not a problem," Jesse said, whistling a little tune and avoiding Hanzo's gaze though he had a feeling his lover was doing the same. "Though it'll taste sweeter if ya don't got them dark clouds hangin' over yer head."

Hanzo let out a small, dryly amused chuckle. He placed his coffee down, having never taken a sip. "You are a good man, Jesse McCree," he began, his voice impatient, "but you must learn if people do not want to talk, they do not have to bend to your will."

"I know."

Jesse's lips twitched into a frown, and he pushed off the counter, reaching for the drip coffee maker. He didn't feel like laboring over another cup from the press. Hanzo clasped both his hands, suddenly in front of him and staring penetratingly into his soul, the look both steely and tender. And slightly chilling as much as it was heart-melting. "I will make it," he said. "Why don't you begin making breakfast? You are a better cook than me."

The frown setting Jesse's mouth flipped over in a heartbeat. "Thank you, Hannie," he said, placing a quick kiss to his husband's lips. "But you're not bad yerself."

"That is up for debate," Hanzo said as he turned the stove heat on high to boil the water.

They both laughed, the noise like ice cracking. It was almost surreal, and Jesse had the strangest feeling that this was both meant to be and a complete fluke. The contrasts warring in his body twisted his insides, but Hanzo made the nausea more bearable. Jesse just hoped they wouldn't have to deal with this for the rest of their lives.


End file.
